


under the sun

by TrasBen



Series: room for three [4]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Sans, M/M, Mentions of Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), Underfell Sans/Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Underfell Sans/Undertale Sans/Horrortale Sans (Undertale), Undertale Sans (Undertale), and bad at coping, he's still depressed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:47:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29962512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrasBen/pseuds/TrasBen
Summary: Rocks don't have to go to the grocery store. Rocks don't have to have awkward conversations with their crushes.It'd probably be easier if Sans was a rock.
Relationships: Sans/Sans (Undertale)
Series: room for three [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636198
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	under the sun

Winter lasts forever.

Or, at least, that’s how it feels. To Sans.

Maybe that’s a little short-sighted since he’s over two hundred years old and the vast, _vast_ majority of those years had been spent in an _actual_ perpetual winter biome. It’s not even like there’s hardly as much snow on the surface, either. In Snowdin there was a blizzard at least once a month, with snowfall ranging from mild to heavy every other day.

It snows maybe a few times a year on the surface. Not even really hard or long enough to last for more than a few hours under the sun.

So maybe Sans is just being dramatic.

And while Sans knows this, it does _not_ ultimately make it anymore pleasant to sit outside on an early February morning while he waits for Papyrus to be finished in the store. And, sure, he _could’ve_ gone in with him. But Sans has been in the mood lately where being perceived might give him a heart attack. 

Impressive considering he doesn’t _have_ a heart.

Sans would’ve been fine to wallow some more, like he’d been doing for the past week, but Papyrus had finally put his foot down about the whole thing. He claimed that Sans might as well start growing moss if he was going to lay around like some sort of rock in the dark.

Which might have actually been pleasant. You know. Let the elements reclaim him and all of that. At the end of the day, he’s just some dust animated by magic, so what really separates him from any other rock or tree stump?

( _Papyrus_ did not agree. _Papyrus_ told him to change into some real pants and join him on a trip to the grocery store. _Papyrus_ let Sans sit on the playground swing across from the store when Sans mumbled something about fresh air.)

Someone really ought to maintain these things better, because every small movement causes the chains of the swing to creak way too loudly. Sounds like the entire thing might just fall apart if Sans so much as wiggles - and isn’t that an intriguing thought? Would Sans’ meager weight be enough to finally send this entire structure crashing if he swung his legs?

Sans’ breath fogs up around his skull, like he’s exhaling smoke. He could really use a cigarette. It’s been, like, what, two weeks? He’s hardly been up out of his bed for one of them and he’d gone through his last pack just a little bit before that, so he hasn’t had time to go out and get a new one. Of course Sans doesn’t necessarily _need_ cigarettes. It’s just that the smoke and the burning, gritty feeling in his mouth is kind of familiar and gives him something to take his mind off of the aching in his joints -

A long, rusty _creak_ sounds from the swing just to the right of Sans.

Sans continues to look down at the sneakers he’d shoved his feet into earlier. The laces are smudged with something black and greasy. They’re limp where they hang from the shoes, untied. Funny how his feet don't even reach the ground on a kids’ swing set.

The swing beside him continues to groan in complaint as it strains under the weight of its new occupant. It’s loud against the absolute silence of the world around them. It’s too early for people to be out.

Sans just tilts his skull down into an awkward angle so he can tuck his nasal ridge into the collar of his sweater and pretend he doesn’t smell the bonfire and the cinnamon and just the _hint_ a little mustard. His brow prickles painfully as he starts to sweat.

Of course the first time in a week Sans leaves the house and _this_ happens. Gotta love karma.

Even better that Sans probably smells like the inside of a locker room. Sure, he’d changed his shorts before going out, but that doesn’t fix the rest of… _him_.

Red clears his throat. It sounds rough and awkward, and _suddenly_ , Sans wants to be here even _less._

“.... you left some of your stuff at our place.”

There it is. _There_ it is. There _it_ is. There it _is_.

Sans makes a noise in the back of his _own_ non-existent throat, which sounds a lot like a chicken being strangled or something. He has to choke back a few nervous stutters before he can start talking. Even then, his voice is uneven as shit. “i know.”

He hits his fist against his sternum a few times, like there’s something caught in his rib cage that’s making him act and talk like an idiot. (hint: it’s his stupid soul)

“yeah.” Sans says again, louder. He’s still looking at his feet. “yeah. i know.”

The swing continues to scratch in protest as Red rocks himself back and forth slowly. It wasn’t made for someone his size and weight, but Sans won’t stop him.

“did you wanna come pick it up, or…?”

Sans has to squeeze his sockets shut and wills the images of Red and Axe’s apartment out of his head. “yeah.” Back to sounding like he’s dying. “that’s - i’ll do that.”

“ok.”

He wishes he was brave enough to chance a glance at Red, if only to see what expression he’s making. But Sans _knows_ , he just _knows_ that if he does, he’ll see Red’s face all flushed and pretty and hear his voice, _“better than just watching by the door, innit?”_

Sans opens his sockets again because it’s all too easy to picture exactly what he _doesn’t_ want to when his shoes aren’t in front of him.

(Can skeletons get hives? Or go into anaphylaxis?)

Sans continues to sit on the swing hunched into himself.

Red’s sneakers drag against the wood chips on the ground as he stills himself. “we can go now, if you’re free…”

“i’m waiting. on paps.” Sans feels like he’s breathing in cold water, drowning him and startling him into reality all at once. “he’s shopping.”

“alright. saturday?” Red asks. Sans really hates the pity in his voice. Hates that he’s _relieved_ that Red just thinks he’s some sort of greasy lump who deserves his pity instead of his disgust, or anger, or…

“sure.”

The chains on the swing squeal in relief as Red stands. They echo Sans’ own feelings. Finally, he’ll be alone to wallow some more in privacy. 

But Red doesn’t leave right away. Instead, he stands right in front of where Sans is sitting. Sans knows, because he’s still staring at his own feet. Red’s beat up sneakers (tied into knots) are just visible in his line of sight.

He’s rocking on his feet. “i’ll have axe text you the deets.”

“sounds… good.” Sans replies. For the first time since Red first sat down next to him, he looks up.

Red looks like… Red. Same jacket, same clothes thrown on haphazardly. His face is pulled into a surprisingly casual grin. Sans feels the tension bleed out of his shoulders. _He’s_ the one making this weird, per usual. Everything about Sans is weird and complicated. Red isn’t complicated.

“see ya, sansy.” Red winks and gives a little wiggle of his fingers that Sans thinks is supposed to mean _bye bye_.

Sans raises his hand in a similar motion, barely managing to pull an almost-genuine smile of his own over his face.

It only takes a blink, and Red is gone.

… 

… Sans slumps against one of the chains on the swing. It groans like it can feel the weight of the world on his shoulders. He drags his hand over his face, like he’ll wipe away some of the self loathing that’s dripping from his defeated frame.

“see ya, sansy.” Sans parrots quietly, to himself. It’s nowhere near as fond as Red had said it. Meaner still, Sans mimics Red’s voice and says, “better than just watching from the door, yeah.”

...

“ARE YOU TALKING TO SOMEONE?”

Sans yelps and falls backwards, smashing his kull against the wood chips as his hips slide out of the small plastic seat of the swing. Blearily, he can make out Papyrus’ distinctive skull leaning over him.

Further inspection reveals that there’s a line of grocery bags on each of his arms. “OH DEAR. APOLOGIES FOR STARTLING YOU, SANS.”

“hnn….” Sans makes a hazy noise of displeasure, “i oughta put a bell on you, pappers.”

“... MAYBE YOU NEED SOME MORE FRESH AIR, SANS.”

Sans looks further up, to where the sun is barely peeking out from beyond the grey clouds of late-winter-early-spring. “... maybe.”

There’s wood chips in his jacket.

**Author's Note:**

> it took so long but it's hereee
> 
> did y'all miss sans? he's still a mess LMAO


End file.
